


reverie

by colectiva



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colectiva/pseuds/colectiva
Summary: Nate unwinds in the bath after a long dayBathwater dribbles down the side of the clawfoot tub, pools at its golden base. His feet kick up on the porcelain lip, unable to accommodate the full stretch of him. Ankles crossed one over the other, they twitch in response (a reflex he has carried with him from his previous life) to a dreamy tune of impressionist paintings forged into melodies.
Relationships: Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Kudos: 6





	reverie

**Author's Note:**

> aka i wanted to talk about Nate not fitting in a tub, just shh...let me have this.

**He slicks his hair back.**

Darker, heavier, dripping. Long fingers catching over the shell of his ears, stopping to cup the sides of his neck.

Eyes (with the droplets clinging to already wet lashes) concede with a tentative flutter, serenity working into reluctant muscles. Perfumed water with bergamot and lavender suds hugging and slipping down the planes of his chest. Sweet, light foam gliding off a ribcage, floating away and forming part of a larger colony.

Gentle pressure works the knot at his nape, rolling his head in agreement.

A stream of air blows past wet lips, features (with rolling, rapid rivulets sliding down the high points of cheeks) twisting into brief discomfort. Upper lip curling to one side, a flash of teeth bared at no one while fingertips knead the skin warm.

Another breath, fuelled by contentment and laced with simplistic delight.

Bathwater dribbles down the side of the clawfoot tub, pools at its golden base. His feet kick up on the porcelain lip, unable to accommodate the full stretch of him. Ankles crossed one over the other, they twitch in response (a reflex he has carried with him from his previous life) to a dreamy tune of impressionist paintings forged into melodies. 

The slight movement causes delicate silver to glitter in the light, roped where his leg finally ends (resting wet on the brown flesh stretched taut over firm bone). 

Another twitch and more water trickles down from powerful calves– from the sleek and smoothed over dark hair of his legs.

An endless arm rises from the lukewarm depths and lays across the brim. Elegant, pianist fingers tap along to a grainy tune playing from the gramophone in the corner. 

It’s silent, despite the occasional clumsy slip, metal ring clinking on porcelain as he chases after the running arpeggios.

He hums, barely audible, as to not upstage the art in progress, but shows his appreciation nonetheless. The first note, rough in his throat– smoother the longer he warms the folds there. A tremulous melody not quite reaching the edges of the intended rhythm, stretching to welcome the quaver.

The crackle of the needle running over the silent groove fills the room. A frequency he has come to enjoy over the years. Finally, he has a sound he can attribute to the murmur of peace.

“ _My, my,_ ” and he rolls his head along the bath’s high-back, stopping when he faces the door (a rogue pearl of moisture skates down an eyebrow, down the side of his face, craddling the underside of his stubbled jaw). Eyes gently fluttering open, dreamily staring ahead, he greets his favourite guest with a soft, lazy smile. “It appears I have an audience.”


End file.
